She paced over to the pillars and stared out at the drizzle, the gray weeping sky, the temples on the far bank. The rainy season had begun, but over in Vigaelia this was cold season, and the pass was closed. Few of the trees and shrubs were blooming now-only the exiles, red and white. They were called exile flowers because they bloomed when no others did.
Where were her own exiles, her three sons and her daughter? Where did they bloom today, if they bloomed at all? She would not know them if they walked in the door right now, and they would not remember her. It was a year since Stralg had promised to send for them, or some of them. She had not heard a word from the Fist since, but rumor said he and his horde were being driven ever closer to the walls of Celebre. There were constant rumors of Cavotti victories, Stralg defeats. She no longer cared which side won, if they would just leave the city alone. And give her back her children.
Faint sounds warned her; she turned and saw that her visitors had arrived, accompanied by a dozen or so flunkies. Surprisingly, they remained clustered around the doorway while the chief herald advanced toward her with a single companion, black-robed and black-hooded. Even at that distance Oliva could recognize Quarina Poletani, justiciar of the city. She had not been included in the invitation and her presence was ominous. Nevertheless, she must be shown proper respect. Oliva strode forward to meet her halfway.
She rummaged in memory for the laws Piero had explained to her half a year ago, when he began to fail in earnest. As senior judge in the city, the justiciar came first in precedence after the elders and would chair the council during the interregnum, when it chose the next doge. They couldn’t declare Piero legally dead, could they? If Speaker Quarina said they could, who would argue? The political infighting had begun.
Female Speakers were rare and Piero had raised many eyebrows when he promoted Quarina to head the judicial bench. Unlike most Speakers, male or female, she did have traces of a sense of humor. She had raised two children and had two, perhaps three, grandchildren; she was spare or even frail. Oliva liked her.
Quarina arrived and was presented by the herald in a quiet voice, no trumpets. With the protocol so dubious, Oliva had forbidden excessive formality.
“A pleasant surprise, Speaker.”
“No cause for alarm, though.” Quarina did not smile, but possibly her eyes twinkled slightly. Did she dislike being used as a weapon of intimidation? “Since the matter that brings the honored councillors to wait upon your ladyship is an affair of state, they persuaded me I should be present as a witness. I agreed only upon condition that you approved.”
“To witness what?” Oliva asked, eyes wide, brain racing. Then she caught herself. “But of course they will wish to tell me themselves. Your counsel and presence are most certainly welcome, Speaker.” She nodded to the herald, who bowed and withdrew.
The moment he was out of earshot, Quarina said, “Also, I bring a message for you. I was not told who sent it, only that it was important.”
Oliva felt every muscle tense. “It must be, to deserve such a messenger.”
Quarina’s smile was ladylike, not judicial. “As upholders of holy law, we Speakers are supposed to be sacrosanct, although I have never felt tempted to put that clause to the test.” She was doing so now, if the sender was who he must be, Marno Cavotti.
“You had better relieve yourself of your burden, then.”
“I was just told to tell you that the tholos urgently needs repairs.”
Oliva let out a long breath. Yes, it was Cavotti. A scaffolding around the tholos atop the temple of Veslih would be a signal that his troops had her permission to enter Celebre. “I see.”
“I admit that I do not. I was also told that there would be no answer.”
“No,” Oliva said. “There is no answer.” Stralg was almost certainly on his way. Refugees were flooding in. One side or other would occupy the city whether she liked it or not, and the other would promptly try to raze it. Why had the gods chosen her to solve such problems?
The two elders who had requested this meeting were Giordano Giali and Berlice Spirno-Cavotti. Oliva had not convened the council in half a year, but she knew that its members had taken to meeting unofficially, in secret. They decided nothing, remaining steadfastly deadlocked, but sooner or later enough of them would die off to shift the balance of power. Meanwhile, this pair were unofficial leaders of the two main factions. Evidently the council had agreed to do something, but was either not sure what or did not trust any one of its members to do it unsupervised.
Berlice was a hard-faced woman of around sixty, leader of the pro-Stralg faction, the do-whatever-the-Fist-says-fast faction. She was also the mother of Marno Cavotti, the Mutineer. Piero had appointed her to the council to replace her husband, who had encouraged his son to rebel and for that had been publicly flayed while his wife and children were forced to watch. Berlice’s face had a right to be hard. That incident had also lost the Cavotti family its standing among the very rich, so her sons and daughters had been forced to marry a few rungs down the social ladder. Whether her loyalty to Stralg was genuine or opportunist, only the blood-lord and his Witnesses knew, but she certainly had no love for Oliva Assichie-Celebre.
Giordano, on the other hand, was head of one of the greatest houses-old, bulky, silver-haired, and gloriously robed. His face, pouchy and florid, bedecked with bushy white eyebrows, wore an amiability that hid the ethics of a snake. He was a stout Piero supporter, leader of the traditionalists, rather stupid. Whatever his private opinion of Oliva, he would defend her against Berlice supporters because Piero would want him to.
“My lord Giordano,” Oliva greeted him as he bowed. “How nice to see you. Councillor Berlice, you look well.” Considering your age.
Then she shut up. This little get-together was their idea. Let them talk.
Berlice said, “Lady Oliva, we are all aware that the lord doge is most grievously sick and unlikely to recover. Is this not so?”
Oliva nodded. She had kept the elders away from Piero’s sickroom for half a year, but to deny the truth any longer would be absurd.
“The council is concerned about the succession,” Giordano rumbled. “We asked the Speaker to advise us on the law. She said-”
Quarina objected. “Not ‘the law’! Holy Demern requires us to be obedient to our rulers and adjures them to rule justly. Never does He stipulate who is to rule. In Celebre the doge’s successor is chosen according to custom. My guidance on custom I give as a judge, not as a Speaker.”
Oliva awarded her a sliver of smile and said nothing. Holy writ could not be changed. Custom could.
“The doge is chosen by the council of elders,” Berlice said.
“The day after his predecessor’s funeral,” Oliva added.
Berlice’s smiles could be even thinner than hers. “At which meeting, the dead man casts the first vote. It is the most important vote, because few councils have ever overruled a doge’s posthumous choice.”
The justiciar said, “Five.”
“And how many doges have there been?” Oliva asked.
“Thirty-two chosen by council. Customs were different earlier.”
Pause.
Giordano coughed heavily. “The council has sent us to inquire of the lord Piero who has his dying voice.”
Mostly they wanted to know just how ill he was. They would be shocked. Piero had not spoken or even known his wife in that last two thirties. Any breath could be his last. As soon as the elders had established that, they would appoint a more suitable regent than Oliva Assichie-Celebre, daughter of a very minor house.